


trying to find myself (through someone else's eyes)

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mirrors, Suicidal Thoughts, has some intense moments so please check those chapter notes if you think you might have trouble!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2019-08-26
Packaged: 2020-10-01 21:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20403745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Hank usually doesn't like who he sees in the mirror. But who he's seeing in the mirror isn't him anymore: it's some twink brunette brushing his teeth without a care in the world.Until aforementioned twink brunette sees him, and then they both have to learn to care—for each other and for themselves.(written for the hankcon rbb19)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> fic title taken from the song atlas: nine by sleeping at last
> 
> i was paired up with artist xxhhunter for this--you can find her on twitter at [@xxhhunter](https://twitter.com/xxhhunter) and tumblr also at [xxhhunter](https://xxhhunter.tumblr.com) also check out the full rbb directory [here!](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/)
> 
> cws for this chapter include: intense self-hatred and negative thinking, mention of alcoholism and alcohol abuse, mention of death and suicidal ideation / russian roulette attempts, hallucination mention, passing mention of past drug usage

art by [@xxhhunter](https://twitter.com/xxhhunter/status/1166061492564832257?s=20)

Hank knows who lives in the mirror. He has to see him every day, after all. He's a fucked-up alcoholic nobody, a void where a person should be, just—taking and taking and taking and destroying everything, everybody, who comes into orbit. He's also a complete fucking slob. Hasn't gotten his hair trimmed in ages. Some disaster of a beard on his face. Sallow cheeks, hollow eyes. Vacant. Dead.

The guy who lives in the mirror, Hank hates his fucking guts, hates every fucking thing about him with a passion that's practically the only thing that keeps him running some days. He surrounds him with post-it notes like they're talismans that could keep him there, the guy only he ever sees completely, the guy he knows doesn't deserve forgiveness. He knows him. He's the only one who knows him. He knows every pathetic inch of him.

This guy isn't him.

Hank had always figured he'd die on the job, and then in the crash, and then maybe from the drinking or the Russian Roulette or any number of things else—one of those kinds of shitty insignificant deaths that come to shitty insignificant people. He hadn't anticipated hallucinations being involved, much less a hallucination of some twink-ass brunette brushing his teeth.

Well. No matter. Doesn't really matter how it happens when he's been preparing for the event for three years. "Is this my life flashing before my eyes?" he calls out to nobody. "Because I was blond. Just, yanno. For the record. Thought you guys were supposed to know shit like that."

The universe, or God or nobody or whoever, does not respond to his constructive criticism.

"Also I was a lot less thorough about my dental hygiene, I'm pretty sure," Hank adds, just to get the last word in, when the guy who is not him in the mirror looks straight for the first time, startles, and stumbles back. He catches himself, pinwheeling backwards, and stays with his arms splayed out behind him, breathing hard and staring wide-eyed at Hank. His toothbrush is still in his mouth, suds dripping down and forming long, unattractive strings down to the sink.

Hank scratches at his chin, staring back. "Did I ever have a trip this bad in college?" he mumbles, this time to himself.

The guy takes a few shaky steps forward, running a nervous hand through his hair, and plasters the other hand to the mirror. It looks like his hand is just pressed up against a window, but Hank knows his bathroom, has had it for all three of these years, installed the mirror himself. It's no window.

Being dying has made him surprisingly calm, Hank thinks, and waves at the guy who's maybe him or whatever.

His mouth drops open, the toothbrush falls out and into the sink, and Hank only catches him a couple seconds longer after that, 'cause he's running out of the room. Hank blinks placidly after him. His own reflection is back, just as awful and sour as always.

"Okay," he says, out loud, and plods out of the room, shucking his shirt and his pants as he goes, leaving them on the floor on the way to his bed. Maybe not dying, then. Maybe just the whiskey gettin' creative in its late-night programming. He doesn't really give that much of a shit.

Or maybe he is dead, maybe this is hell or something, and hell is just living like he has been for the rest of eternity.

Jesus. What a punishment. He's not sure he can think of a worse one. But he doesn't have to, because all he has to do right now is adjust his pillow and fall into a restless sleep. Nice, he's always thought, how liquor rids you of all your obligations like that.

He wakes up to some shrill alarm way too early, one that Jeff set for him ages back and he can't figure out how to turn off permanently, which means the alcohol hasn't gotten rid of at least one obligation: work. He could probably do it himself if he wanted, just stop turning up completely. Resign. Throw some tantrum in the bullpen and get fired. It's a miracle he hasn't been fired already, really, and he probably woulda been if Jeff weren't in charge.

He could go back to sleep, right now. He's done it before, enough that he knows exactly how to tune out the resulting lecture. But the fact is, the reason why he hasn't done any of that shit that would fast track him to unemployment yet, fact is that it keeps him going. Sometimes anyway. Having that structure, having at least a couple people who want to see him even if it's just to avoid HR paperwork, it's...something. Something real small, but something.

It's why he doesn't roll over, though he does sigh as loud and irritated as possible on principle. But after a moment or twenty of consideration, he gets out of his bed and plods into the bathroom to take a piss. On his way, he checks the mirror out of habit.

The guy is there again. He's patting aftershave on his face like this is fucking Home Alone or something.

Hank just woke up, so he thinks he can be forgiven for being slow on the uptake. The up to be taken is, of course, that he's not drunk anymore.

Shit.

The guy seems to be thinking something similar, because he looks horrified. His hand comes up to his face, his palm presses against his forehead and back, pushing a curl out of the way only for it to flop down again.

"Who are you," he says soundlessly, or at least that's what Hank thinks he's sayin', because it's not like he can read lips or anything. And Hank—well, Hank's up way too fucking early for the bender he was on last night, and he's tired and he's been done with everything for a real long time, so he just huffs and shakes his head and goes to take that piss, and when he comes back to the mirror the guy is gone. Hank can see himself, now, and he doesn't blame whoever the fuck is living in there, either. He looks like shit.

Hank closes his eyes, breathing in and out in some horrible approximation of breathing the police counselor had tried to get him to do, back when Jeff still thought he could make him see a police counselor.

In, out, slow.

You're fine, Hank, you're fine. In, out.

He sucks in the next breath through his teeth and washes his hands without looking up in the mirror at all, and leaves the bathroom to go take out Sumo. He's not fine. Of course he's not fucking fine. But he has a dog that needs to go outside and a job that needs a checkmark next to his name and—and that's it. Just him, his shitty life, and his shitty reflection that's sometimes a twink.

He still gets ready, though, gets dressed and dumps food in Sumo's bowl and locks his door and gets in his car and drives to work, because it's what he's got. And until he works up the courage or cowardice or just plain fucking apathy to get rid of it all, he has to work with that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter include: mention of brain tumors, medical/doctor mention, derisive and potentially ableist mentions of hallucination, mention of suicidal ideation, negative thinking, self-hatred, quick argument

Hank might be at work, but he doesn't really want _to_ work with how he's feeling today, so he makes his way into Jeff's office instead.

"I think I have a brain tumor," he announces. 

Jeff doesn't even bother looking up. Good ol' Jeff, and good for him, too. Hank would be concerned if he still responded to Hank's bullshit.

"Okay," Jeff says distractedly. "What makes you think that? Google?"

"Good idea." Hank reaches to pluck one of his pens out of the 'Greatest Boss' mug Hank had gotten him ironically four years ago, and Jeff swipes at his hand to block the movement, still without looking at him. "But no. I'm hallucinating."

"I'm hallucinating you leaving my fucking office," Jeff grumbles, but finally looks up, gaze hard. "That's not funny, Hank."

"Wasn't trying to be." Hank leans back in the chair. "Legitimately, no jokes, I hallucinated last night. Thought it was just the whiskey, but I saw it again this morning."

Jeff searches his face. "For real?"

"Dead serious." Hank takes a pen in the resulting distraction and taps it against the desk. "What do you think I should do?"

"Wh—Hank, you should go to a doctor."

It's the answer Hank should've expected, standard operating procedure, but he throws the pen down on the desk and scowls anyway. "No."

"Hank—"

"I said no, Jeff! Jesus, you know how I feel about—"

"And you feel better about dying?"

They both fall silent after that, looking in different directions. Jeff also knows how he feels about dying.

(Not better, but what he deserves.)

"Never mind," Hank finally says, standing up. "You're right."

"You're not saying you'll do it."

"No, I'm not." He leaves Jeff's office before he can complain and takes his car out to follow up on some lead he knows won't go anywhere. It's not here, though, which is good enough for him. 

When he gets home for the day, exhausted and sweaty and disgusting from a car that splashed water all over him, he goes first thing to take a shower. When he looks in the mirror, there's nobody there. He's not sure how he feels about it, even. Is the ache in his chest because now he's wondering if he imagined it all, and how pathetic that would make him? Or is it because he's lonely, and that guy was the first fresh face he's seen in a while?

Probably it's heartburn from lunch, he decides, and leaves the bathroom once more.

But he comes back in the end. He doesn't need to shower, he doesn't need to use the toilet. Doesn't need to brush his teeth. He just stares at the mirror, peers at it close like he'll find some trick to it somehow. Or the secret of life, maybe. He'd take either. 

He's about to leave, disgusted with himself and how ridiculous he's acting, when something in the mirror shimmers and shifts, like a projector moving to the next slide. He might've not found answers in his reflection, but now, at least, he sees the man from earlier. He looks like shit, like somebody who's been up all night tossing and turning. Hank would know; he's seen it in himself enough.

"You look like shit," he says out loud, and the man frowns, tilts his head and then taps his ears.

There's another familiar expression on his face, too, now Hank thinks of it. Resignation. Like that 'Jesus I guess this is just how things are now so might as well roll with it' type thing. Maybe that's why he's telling his hallucination to speak up.

"You look like shit," Hank says, louder, enunciating more clearly. The guy's face twists in irritation, and Hank almost thinks maybe they just have bad cell connection or—or however this works, but he shakes his head again and taps his ears more insistently, then makes an 'x' sign with his hands.

"You can't hear me?" Makes sense, if anything here does; Hank can't hear him either. Hank thinks about it for a couple of moments, then holds up a finger. "Ah. Hang on a sec." Scrabbling for the post-its he keeps near the sink and a pen, he writes in his clearest handwriting down on the pad of paper, 'You look like shit.'

He presses it up against the mirror, pointing at it with his other hand, and the guy looks confused before he squints at the paper. But it doesn't take too long before the guy scowls, putting his hands on his hips. It's very pissed-off elementary school teacher, especially since he's wearing a cardigan like he thinks he's fuckin' Mr. Rogers, and the mental image amuses Hank so much that he can't stop the snort that comes out, or the subsequent laughter. 

It's the first time he's laughed for real in a while, and the irony doesn't escape him that it's from harassing a figment of his imagination. Maybe this is what a mental break feels like. But the guy still standing there with his hands on his hips with his dumbass cardigan, looking shocked and then angry and then, slowly, starting to smile too, keeps him laughing until he's pitched over the sink wheezing.

When he's recovered, the guy is holding up a piece of paper—some kind of memo pad, looks like, with the words 'to do' mirrored across the top—and smiling wryly. 'Speak for yourself. Who are you? What are you?' The letters are shaky and badly formed, like how you'd expect them to look if you wrote backwards for the first time, but Hank can read them. He picks up the pad of post-its and tries again.

'Hank. human. what are you?'

The guy rolls his eyes at seeing that, but responds fairly quickly anyway. 'Connor. Also human. That didn't really answer my question.'

'look dude i'm pretty sure you're a hallucination so' 

Shit. These things don't have much space. Maybe Connor with the memo pad has a good idea. He scrunches his nose and writes a tiny '1/?' at the corner of the square and continues on the next. 

'i don't really know what you're aiming for with the q but' 

God damn it. 2/?. 

'i guess i'm the guy who made you? feel free to go the light or w/e' 

3/3, and Hank presses all three up against the mirror almost triumphantly.

If he had thought Connor looked angry before it's nothing to now. His pen strokes on the paper are almost biting. When he's done, he slaps the paper up against the mirror. If he could hear it, it would probably be loud. Hank winces on principle.

'I'm not a hallucination, and you certainly didn't make me. I don't know what's going on here either, but that's no excuse to be an asshole.'

Hank catches the tail end of Connor storming out of the room, sees the paper fluttering to the ground before the picture winks out and Hank's face is back.

Connor was right. He does look like shit. Much shittier than Connor, that's for sure. Sighing, he scratches his chin and then leaves to search the rest of the house for a decent sized piece of paper and some tape. And a smaller mirror. Maybe he won't have to figure out how to write backwards that way.

It doesn't escape him either that he's making plans for the purpose of meeting up with his self-purported-not-a-hallucination again, but it's not news that he's pathetic. Or that he's ridiculous or going off the deep end. He knows all that already.

At least this way he has company, and he's not gonna admit to himself how much he's missed it, but he will still bring that dusty old legal pad into the bathroom and hope Connor doesn't stay gone for good, and maybe that's close enough to admitting it that it doesn't matter in the first place.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws for this chapter include: brief potentially ableist comment about sanity, medical mention, depressive thinking and self-hatred, talk about unfairness and negative worldview, mention of suicidal ideation/russian roulette and alcohol abuse

Hank doesn't see Connor for a couple of days. It could be coincidence, it could be they're just missing each other—Hank's had a couple of long shifts recently, anyway—or it could be Connor is consciously avoiding him. Could be Hank's getting more sane. That one is a joke; Hank's been on a slippery slope downward for years and he doesn't think he's getting off anytime soon.

Anyway, point is, Hank doesn't see him for a while, but when he does, Connor startles and looks around like there's someone that can rescue him from this awkward bathroom situation. But eventually his shoulders slump and he delicately picks up a memo pad and writes, 'How do you know you're not the hallucination?' When he presses it up against the mirror, his expression is almost belligerent.

Hank's grin is slow but wide. 'guess i don't' he writes on the legal pad, 'but either way we're fucked right'

Connor sighs and nods, tapping his fingers on the sink below him and chewing on his lip. 'Well, it's not like I have the money for an MRI, so guess you're stuck with me.'

'guess so,' Hank writes, smile etched into the wrinkles near his eyes. 'you like tic tac toe?'

Connor's eyebrows raise, conveying disdain better than words on a memo pad ever could. 'No.'

'hangman'

'Are you ten?'

'i spy'

With that, Connor's eyes grow wide, and then he bursts out laughing. It makes him look young, not that Hank knows how old he is in the first place, and happy and bright, and for some reason Hank wishes in that moment he could hear the sound of it. Maybe it's best he didn't, though. Maybe that would be too bright.

'I spy a ten year old,' Connor writes back, and Hank sticks his tongue out. Part of him might be hoping Connor laughs again. Part of him is happy when he does.

'ten and three quarters thank you very much'

'Christ, you're almost too good at playing the part. How old are you really? How do I know you're not wearing old age makeup?' Connor waggles his eyebrows with faux suspicion.

'guess you're just gonna have to trust me. i'm 46 and shitty at makeup'

Connor's lips quirk when he reads that. 'If you say so.' He pauses, looking a bit embarrassed, and adds, 'You don't look that old, by the way. When I said old age I just meant, um, older. You look fine. Also I'm 29. Not shitty at makeup.'

Hank stares at the 'you look fine', a hint of red touching the tips of his ears. People say it all the time to him, sure, usually lying. He doesn't think Connor is lying.

Huh.

'maybe you're the 10 y o'

'Maybe fuck off,' Connor writes, but his eyes are laughing, and Hank smiles before he pulls a stool he's kept in here just in case and sets it in front of his sink. Connor blinks at him, but looks like he huffs out a laugh before pulling a chair of his own into view.

'so tell me more about your worldclass makeup skills' Hank writes. Connor rolls his eyes but starts to write back. It's nice. Good.

Hank doesn't deserve good things.

He doesn't know for sure what he deserves, but he knows he doesn't deserve good things. But whether he deserves it or not: Connor comes back the next day. And the day after, and after that. And he keeps coming back.

Hank tries to justify it at first: it's Connor's bathroom, of course he has to use it too. Neither of them know still what's going on, but all of it is easier if he at least pretends Connor is real. His words sound real. He feels real. Hank wants him to be real.

He's getting ahead of himself.

He tells himself Connor has to be there. But day after day, Connor is there, and it's too regular to be a coincidence. Hank has to concede after a while that Connor waits for him like he waits for Connor. That maybe Connor enjoys their conversations like Hank enjoys them. That maybe he—

(He's getting ahead of himself. He's being presumptuous. He's wanting things he can't have and doesn't deserve.)

Hank learns a lot about Connor through their paper conversations, as days turn to weeks and weeks to months. He learns that Connor is whip-smart, and indeed a teacher, though he's still working on his certification. He learns that he's funny, this dry kind of humor that gets Hank smiling or even tilting his head back in full-body laughter. He learns he's kind, and always asks how Hank is doing and how his day went. He learns that he wants to have better days to tell Connor about. He learns that he can.

It's amazing, how much lighter his days feel with someone to talk to, someone he tells his past that doesn't shut off from him afterwards, someone who sees him drunk and tries to calm him from the frantic energy that tells him the best solution to his problems is his revolver. Someone who still comes back the day after, still just as bright and kind, and treats him like someone worth seeing.

It almost makes him think he might be, sometimes.

It's not that he doesn't still have bad days. He has plenty. But with someone there to share them with him, well—it's good, is all, and he doesn't deserve it, but he wants it anyway. 

Fuck, he wants Connor anyway.

He doesn't like admitting that, even in the relative safety of his own thoughts. He doesn't even know for sure that Connor is real, for fuck's sake. He searched once for a Connor Stern age 29 living in the Detroit area and nothing came up. Maybe one or more of those details are wrong, but he's not going to abuse his position to use the national database for someone who still well may be a guy he made up. Maybe that'd explain why he likes Connor so much, too, how well they click. Maybe it's all just in his head. Either way it's wrong for him to think about Connor like that, someone who would deserve better if he existed, someone who probably doesn't want him back.

Jesus, this is why he doesn't like thinking about it. It's fuckin' depressing.

He's lost in thought, sitting on the stool he keeps near the sink now and drumming his fingers on the porcelain. A flash of movement catches his eye and he sees Connor there, waving.

'You look like shit,' Connor writes, and Hank laughs breathlessly. Connor's joking—it's become somewhat of a greeting between them—but probably right, too. He scrubs a hand through his hair and nods.

'Want to talk about that'

No. No, he doesn't. He looks away, but as always, his gaze is drawn back to Connor. Always him. 

'just thinking'

He pauses, chews on his lip, then adds more. Fuck it. Worst case, he doesn't see his hallucination anymore. Worst case Connor is gone, and it's not like Hank doesn't know a thing or two about people leaving him.

'you ever think the universe is out to get you specifically, like...taking away what you want, giving you shit you can't have. sucks'

Connor reads that, carefully, pursing his lips, then exhales.

'I've thought that before, yeah. Anything bring this on?'

It would be impolite at best to say 'you, and how you won't kiss me'. Hank doesn't say that. He just shrugs listlessly and looks away again.

When he looks back, Connor is still writing. He's taking his time, and Hank is intrigued, leaning forwards slightly until his head bumps the mirror. Shit, he almost forgets sometimes. He leans back and rubs his forehead, scowling.

Connor finally puts the note up against the mirror. 'There's a lot of loss in this world to go around, a lot of unfairness. There's a lot that does suck about living sometimes. And it's easy to get caught up in that, I think, to get so overwhelmed by all that's wrong that it feels like it's not worth it. But I think there are things that make it worth it, here and there, whether it's just something that makes you laugh or something delicious you had for lunch or something bigger like someone you care about taking time out of their day to talk to you, someone who makes things feel a bit more manageable, someone who makes life brighter...I don't know. I think the universe is indifferent, but I think sometimes the people in it can make up for that.'

Hank blinks slowly at the piece of paper, heart rising in his throat. Connor is looking down at his sink, a blush high on his cheekbones, and Hank thinks, no way. No way he means what I think he means. There's no way.

There's no way, and so even though it kills him, he doesn't ask what he wants to ask: do you have someone like that? Could I be someone like that? Did you mean me?

He clears his throat and writes back, 'thanks for saying all that. i'll be ok'

He's not sure if Connor's face falls or whether he's just imagining it. But when Connor writes back 'No problem. Sorry, I can't stay long. I'll see you later.' it feels an awful lot like he chased him away somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my deepest apologies for the intense timeskip of: All Of The Time They Get To Know Each Other i am very tired and sick


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cws include: severe alcohol abuse and drunkenness, gun mention, negative thinking and low self-esteem, semi-attempted russian roulette (averted before there are any issues, as it were), medical/hospital/doctor mention, therapy mention

Hank doesn't think he's imagining that things are more awkward between them after that, though he's not sure whether it's on Connor's end or his. Maybe just both of them. Connor doesn't stay as long, Hank starts to spend more time drinking again to get away from it all. It's all he's good for, after all, is avoiding shit and fucking things up. It's not like that ever changed.

It might be easier if, through all of this, Hank didn't still want Connor there with him, to hold him in his arms and tell him I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm like this, I don't know exactly what I did but I know I ruined something and I want to fix it, I want to love you like you deserve.

Shit.

_Shit,_ he tries not to think the l-word either.

He gets very drunk that evening, so drunk his vision is spinning and his head feels far-off, floating somewhere he doesn't have to deal with this. He barely even recognizes he's scrawling across the post-it notes he still keeps in the bathroom until he's walking out of the bathroom to find some tape, which for some reason he finds in his bedside drawer.

Next to it is his revolver.

He pauses, staring at it, and picks it up too.

It's not like he thinks he'll use it, he rationalizes to himself with what little part of his brain is still able to rationalize. It's just he wants to hold it.

His vision swims as he walks back into the bathroom, managing to sit on the stool with some difficulty, and surveys his post-it note collection. He can barely see them, but he knows what he wrote: I love you. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I love you.

Connor's not in here right now, the part of his brain that was still able to rationalize now succumbed to whiskey points out, so you can tape 'em up just fine. He won't see.

Makes sense, he thinks, and does so.

When that's done, though, there's only the revolver left in his hands, and he surveys it, turns it around in his hands, feels its weight. He spins the chamber, holds it up and examines it. Presses it to his temple, just to feel the coolness of it against his head. He doesn't feel entirely himself right now.

It takes him a moment to recognize where the voice that cries out an anguished, "Hank!" comes from, but his reflexes—or lack thereof, maybe—don't really care about who it is or where it's coming from. He jerks around to the mirror and sees Connor, hand pressed up against the glass, looking like—like—

Like he cares. Like he doesn't want to lose him. Like he—

His revolver slips from his forehead and points just past his head. His trigger finger spasms as he looks, horrified, at the mirror.

There's only one bullet in the chamber, and it flies out of the revolver and into the wall, catching the edge of the mirror and shattering it completely.

His hearing is ringing from being so close to gunfire, so he can't hear himself screaming. He can feel it though, in his throat as it goes raw, in his heart as it drops to his stomach and keeps falling, in his soul as it feels something important being wrenched away from him and goes empty, empty, empty.

His hearing is still ringing minutes later, when the door to the house is busted open by a police patrol alerted by a neighbor to the sound of a gunshot, when they go into the bathroom and find him there staring at the shattered remains of the mirror and the post-it notes still attached to them. If they ask him if he's all right, why tears are falling sluggishly down his face, if they talk to him at all, he doesn't hear them. He doesn't hear anything except for the ringing. It sounds a lot like glass shattering.

They take him gently out of the bathroom and into their car, and to the hospital so they can poke and prod at him and find out why he's unresponsive and still crying.

He doesn't tell them, though. He's not sure he could. When they finally get him to talk, it's only through writing. All of his letters are mirrored.

* * *

_seven years later_

It's been a long time since that night. He slept off the alcohol, sat quietly through their suicide screening, through Jeff running in and asking him what the hell he was thinking, huh, what the fuck is wrong with him. He's asked himself the same question in the years since. What the fuck is wrong with him? Why did he bring the gun in there in the first place? Why couldn't he tell Connor what he was feeling in the first place instead of dancing around the issue for no fucking reason? Why the fuck did he break the mirror?

They say breaking a mirror brings seven years of bad luck, and he's felt every year of it. His hearing in one ear is almost entirely gone, which means he's mostly off the field these days. There have been some good parts to it too, even if they were hard—starting therapy, starting AA and getting sober, three years now. But a lot of bad, because Connor is gone. The old mirror was swept away by some officers Jeff had come round to the house to clean up and 'Hank-proof' the house in the days after he came home from the hospital. The new one that was hung on the wall didn't do anything. Hank had lost him, and it was his own damn fault.

He moved out of that house a year after the incident. He couldn't stand looking at the mirror in his bathroom every day, and besides, he doesn't need all that room for just one person anyway. He moves into an apartment and tries not to think about it. 

But in the years since, after all that therapy—though he doesn't talk about Connor there, because he knows he'd sound crazy, and maybe he is after all—he's started to realize he needs to face his fears. He needs to stop running away, needs to accept blame and move on instead of using blame to deflect responsibility. He drives back past the house.

He's idling by the curb, thinking about Connor and trying to keep his breathing even, when he sees him.

A hallucination, he thinks, at first. A real one this time. I wanted to see him so much that he's here.

But he gets out of his car anyway, goes onto the sidewalk, staring wide-eyed at the man he knows so well getting out of his own car and walking to the front door.

"Connor?" he calls out, voice small and trembling.

Connor slowly turns around and sees him, and he gasps, and then—he's running, running over to Hank, stopping a few feet away and panting, wide-eyed. One hand reaches out as if to touch him, then falls uselessly back to his side. "Hank? Is that—"

"It's me," Hank whispers, and this time he doesn't run away, and he reaches out his hand to touch Connor's face. He feels real. He feels here. 

Connor starts crying, but he's smiling when he says, "You look like shit."

"You too," Hank says, but he's smiling too, and he knows neither of them mean it.

Connor wraps his arms around him, suddenly, and pulls him into a hug. "Hank," he says into Hank's shoulder, "It's you. Hank."

"Yeah, it's me," Hank says again, holding Connor even closer. "I'm here."

"I thought you were—it's been seven months, Hank, I was so worried, I didn't know if you were—"

"Seven months?" Hank pulls away from him but keeps him in his arms, searching, confused. "Connor, it's been seven years since I've last seen you. I moved out of that house six years ago, and—"

"Years—" Connor swallows. "So you mean—"

"I don't know what I mean," Hank says. They keep looking at each other, then Connor sighs.

"This has all been messed up. Who cares." He pauses. "I saw your notes, you know. Before."

"My—" I love you, I'm sorry. He winces. "Oh."

"It's been seven years for you." He licks his lips nervously. "Do you still?"

No running away. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

"Good," Connor says, and kisses him, and it feels right, like two pieces of a puzzle, like two people meeting through time and space because they were meant to know each other, meant to be in love. Like the universe meant it.

Hank doesn't know what he thinks of the universe anymore. He doesn't know what he thinks, whether it's cruel or indifferent or good. But he knows what he thinks of Connor, and so he kisses him back, and again and again and again after that, and Connor asks him into his house, and there's a flash of a mirror in the entryway and he almost turns to look.

He doesn't need to, right now, though. He's got what he wants on this side of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again i am very sorry for how rushed this all is. i had a hard time tbh! but hopefully it's readable :P and thank you for the effort! also they Def have mirror sex at some point and it starts out an ironic suggestion and gets to be much less ironic in the process, thank u
> 
> (also i do not know much about partial hearing loss and i hope i have not been offensive in some way by...using it? i didn't look up the medical side of it or anything like that so yes, my apologies if i have done something wrong here by dropping it in without research)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading! you can find me on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs) and, again, the excellent artist i was paired with on twitter at [@xxhhunter](https://twitter.com/xxhhunter) and tumblr also at [xxhhunter](https://xxhhunter.tumblr.com)
> 
> also check out the full rbb directory [here!](https://hankconrbb.wordpress.com/)


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